


A Noble Quest

by revolutionarycarey (nickythepage)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Canon Era, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 09:24:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7709680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickythepage/pseuds/revolutionarycarey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel is having a very bad day, and Jehan is determined to renew his spirits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Noble Quest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PilferingApples](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PilferingApples/gifts).



> For Poetry Smash Week 2016! (happy birthday, PilferingApples!)

Jean Prouvaire unlocked the door to his rooms and tried to ignore the way the sound of the key in the lock reverberated in his skull. He squinched his eyes shut, but that hurt, too. Well. Last night had not been a waste, exactly, but it had been much less fun without —

“Bahorel?” he croaked as he entered the apartment, eyes still half shut in an effort to fend off the rays from the window in the sitting room. The rays were winning that battle. Jehan listened for an answer as he stumbled towards the curtains. He gave them good yank and almost tipped over. After righting himself and checking furtively to be sure Bahorel was not in the room and had not seen, he realized that he had heard nothing in the way of a reply.

Hmm. Perhaps he was still asleep? This was only slightly worrying, but worrying nonetheless. The evening before, Jehan had been getting ready for an evening of poetic carousing as a duo when Bahorel had stormed into their rooms, slammed the door, stated tersely that he was feeling unwell, and retreated into his bedroom. After ascertaining from the other side of the door that, no, Bahorel really did not want him to call a doctor, yes, he would be fine, and no, he did not think a reading of Le Chanson de Roland would improve his condition, Jehan had ventured out alone, feeling a little uneasy and a little unmoored. 

But really, if Bahorel was still in bed, Jehan should send for Joly or Combeferre, or maybe even a fully-trained doctor. The only time he’d seen Bahorel sick had been with a nasty cold four months ago, and even then a very exasperated Combeferre had suggested strapping him to the bed so he would stay still. Forgetting for the moment his own pounding head, Jehan approached Bahorel’s door hesitantly. He heard no snoring, so the man couldn’t be asleep. Placing his fingertips lightly on the wood, he pushed the door open and peered in. 

The curtains were drawn, and the room was draped in stultifying greys that lay, muted, upon the blankets and carpets that took up the bulk of the space. Jehan caught sight of a red and gold striped waistcoat flung across a chair, but in the light it looked brown and grey. This was nothing short of horrifying. 

“What,” came a gravelly voice from the bed, and there were Bahorel’s dark eyes peering out from under a pile of blankets. The very image would have been adorable if it weren’t running directly counter to Jehan’s understanding of the universe. He stammered for a moment before replying.

“I — hel-hello. Are you quite all right? I came to check on you, and I’m sorry if I woke you, but should I call a doctor, or do you need to — have you gotten out of bed since yesterday evening?”

“No. I’m perfectly happy here,” Bahorel grumbled, and upon seeing Jehan’s stricken face, “What? It’s not even been a day —“

“Yes, I know, but — “

“Need I remind you of the time you laid in bed for three full days mourning the the victims of the Black Death.”

“That was —“

“Which struck in 1348.”

“You know that was only the first time —“

“Or last week when you entered my room, declared that you were forsaking poetry forever, laid directly across the book I was reading, and stayed there for two hours with its spine digging into yours.”

“Well.”

“Or the month after I met you, when you wouldn't eat for a day because you were too distraught over the fate of Jeanne D’Arc —”

“Yes!” Jehan cried, “but that was me!” He clambered onto the bed, sinking a little into the plush mattress. Bahorel rolled away from him. “And you, you don’t do that, you write, or do dramatic recitations, or talk angrily, or, or punch things. Or go out to cafes. I went out to cafes last night, but you didn’t come, are you sure you’re not ill?”

“I am in perfect health, I promise you.” muttered Bahorel into one of his blankets. “I’m sorry about last night, Jehan. I merely wanted some solitude.”

“Oh.” Jehan felt entirely out of his depth. “Are you…is everything all right?”

“I promise you I will be back to my old self in no time,” said Bahorel, and was that bitterness in his tone? When Jehan didn’t answer, he sighed, and rolled back over to face him. “I promise, mon ami.” His voice was kind, but there was still a flat deadness to it. Jehan placed a hand lightly on his shoulder and tried to find the words for the comfort he wanted to give. They were not forthcoming.

“How can I help you?” he said at last. Bahorel sighed.

“If you would permit me to be alone for a while longer?” he said, with a wan smile. “That would be a great help.”

“I — of course,” said Jehan as he stumbled backwards off the bed. His voice sounded false and tinny to his own ears. “I will — you know where to find me when you want to — if you need anything.” His throat was tightening dangerously, and all he could manage was a nod toward Bahorel, who was watching him sympathetically, before he shut the door behind him. He stumbled into his own room as the pounding in his head swept back in full force. Something was wrong — it had to be. Never in the years he’d known him had Bahorel retreated like this. If he was struck with melancholy, he would lament, or bring Jehan to cafes, parties, museums, or graveyards. What could possibly be so overwhelming that he shut himself away from the world, and from Jehan? All of the possible answers to that question made Jehan’s stomach clench. Perhaps it was an illness, or someone had died…

In his reverie, he turned to his beside table, where a book lay open to a diagram of a medieval broadsword. Its hilt was jeweled, and he remembered thinking what a shame it was that such a sword would likely have been merely ceremonial, because the jewels looked like they could be magic, blessed with protective properties to aid the sword’s keeper on a journey. 

That was it! Jehan leapt to his feet. His head was spinning but he made his way across the room anyway, to where his satchel lay with its contents strewn on the floor. Bahorel was in the thrall of something, perhaps demons, and whether their hold on him was metaphorical or literal, there was only one solution. Jehan would go out into the world, armed with determination and his favorite blue doublet, and return with a cure for his condition. It was time for a quest. 

He threw a notebook, some ink, a pen, an empty flask, an interesting rock, and a pendant he’d found that had the look of an amulet in his bag, splashed some water on his face, and was back out the door with a clear head and an even clearer purpose. Bahorel’s spirit was, after all, at stake, and there was no time to waste. 

—————

A thick layer of clouds was settled over the sun by the time he stepped outside. It was ominous weather for a quest, but as of yet there were no monsters in sight, so that was good. Jehan, who had no specific plan in mind, let his habit and his feet carry him through the streets to the Musain. It seemed like a decent enough start — even questing warriors needed refreshment, after all — and his instincts were proven right when, upon entering the cafe, Bossuet’s cheerful shouts caught his attention.

“Prouvaire! Jehan!” and there he was, all warmth and affability, sitting at a corner table with Joly and Grantaire. They appeared to be enjoying their lunch with enough wine to leave Joly’s cravat undone and Bossuet’s feet in his lap. Grantaire was in the middle of a meditation on the properties of wine that sounded as though it had begun long ago.

“My friend, how are you?” whispered Joly as Jehan joined them. “We're having lunch, you're welcome to join —“

“Oh no, the man has a task to complete, can’t you see the purpose in his eyes?” Bossuet laughed, and ruffled Jehan’s hair. “What is the purpose of your adventure, pray tell?”

Jehan laughed. “I am on a quest,” he declared, and Joly and Bossuet both nodded solemnly as if they heard this every day. “Bahorel is feeling — withdrawn, and I have set out to direct him back towards laughter.”

“A truly worthy expedition,” said Joly, just as Grantaire’s tirade rose in volume. Jehan tuned in just in time to hear him say, 

“And wine, of course, is just the same, steering good men towards chaos, steering good women towards indecency, and steering the whole world towards unseemliness and disregard for that most noble and suffocating of structures, tradition, which is precisely why I say, give me more! I bless this bottle, I bless the wine, it is truly nature’s most unholy water, and my brain’s all swollen, gentlemen, with fumes of misery, and I require more wine to —“

Jehan was struck by an idea. He leapt up, grabbed the bottle, and poured some of it into his empty flask, thanking the gods for the inspiration to bring it along. He nodded to Grantaire, whose monologue was still in full swing, before turning back to Joly and Bossuet.

“I would stay, but I must seek more remedies.”

“Of course,” said Bossuet, “A quest would not be a quest if it had only one resting-place along the way. Godspeed, my friend.”

“Thank you,” said Jehan, and then, “Would you three come drink and dine with us tonight? I’m sure your spirits will lighten his heart considerably —“

“Of course!” said Joly.

“Anything for a friend,” said Bossuet

“Come over at eight or so!” cried Jehan, for he was already halfway to the door.

—————

The next stop on his quest turned out to be the rooms of Courfeyrac, because Jehan considered that many heroes had had guides along their path, and no one was more well-versed in the art of affection and good cheer. There, Jehan was pleased to find Enjolras as well. The two were drafting an essay on the matter of bread prices, but were more than willing to hear Jehan’s laments.

“—and I don’t know what the matter is,” he finished, from a very plush chair in Courfeyrac’s sitting room as the two nodded sympathetically.

“Sometimes the best thing you can do is wait until he is ready to volunteer what is weighing on his heart,” said Courfeyrac, “as difficult as that may be. But he will open up to you, my friend, I am sure of it. He trusts no one so much as you. In the meantime, you can always tell him that you hold great affection for him, and will be there to listen when he would like to divulge the matter at hand.” Jehan sighed and nodded. Enjolras fixed him with a singular stare.

“You are a very good friend, Jehan,” he said eventually, very seriously, and Jehan blushed. “We are all lucky to have you as a brother in arms and in understanding. I have no doubt that Bahorel will be helped immensely by your company and care.”

“Th-thank you,” stammered Jehan as he stood up. “I must be going now, but would you two join us at our rooms later this evening? I do think your presence would lend much-needed cheer to the place, and he may need you both as well.”

“Of course we will,” smiled Courfeyrac as he too stood up to show Jehan out. Jehan’s eyes fell upon a daisy in his lapel. It was looking a little dry and was missing a petal, but was pleasing nonetheless, in an odd sort of way. Jehan plucked it out, smiled at Courfeyrac, and left. 

—————

At Combeferre’s rooms, he also found Feuilly, and the two were in the middle of an enthusiastic discussion on the history of Sicily. Emotions were running high — there was a certain light in Feuilly’s eyes that Jehan had on a previous occasion labelled the “very illumination of justice” -- but they, too, gladly paused to consider how best to help Bahorel.

“The best thing,” said Feuilly, slowly but with passion, “is to bring him news on a subject he cares about. Interest him, and he may get a much-needed respite from his worries. You can grant him that.”

“I will try,” said Jehan, feeling a little like the acolyte of a particularly charismatic priest. 

“I have just the thing!” cried Combeferre from the next room, where he had disappeared in search of a book. He returned, spectacles crooked, carrying a small volume with a worn blue cover. “I found this in a curio shop the other day — it’s a woefully misguided but very spirited defense of the dramatic unities. Perhaps it will anger him enough that he will be reinvigorated? I look forward to hearing a jolly evisceration of it from both of you in any case.”

“That is perfect!” said Prouvaire, taking the book. “Would you both like to dine with us this evening?”

—————

Jehan stood outside Bahorel’s door once more, armed with the book, his Unholy Water, a rapidly-wilting daisy, and a tray of sliced bread and cheese. Why was he so nervous? He was never nervous to enter Bahorel’s rooms, to sit with him on the floor under an improvised shelter of blankets or to lie with him on his bed, to drink wine together and discuss the theatrical merits of dramatizing their lives, or to kiss him after, pushing him back onto the mattress and tickling his ribs until Bahorel, wheezing with laughter, flipped them over and…

Well. In any case, he was nervous now, but equally determined to get to the bottom of what was confining his friend to muted tones instead of the bright colors he was used to. He took one more anxious breath, knocked softly, and pushed the door open.

“Bahorel?” The man in question did not seem to have stirred much since earlier. His eyes, however, peeking out from his blanket cocoon, were rimmed with red. Something clenched in Jehan’s chest. 

“Mon ami, you missed my quest,” he said softly, setting the talismans and the tray of food down on an end table before pulling off his boots and climbing onto the bed. 

“Your quest?” Bahorel’s voice contained a small smile. “Were you off slaying dragons today, Jean Prouvaire?”

“No, not slaying, but befriending. I met this dragon, you see, he was marvelous, his scales were deep red like rubies and he had claws that could crush buildings, if he ever deigned to use them for that. But he had retreated into his cave because of the slings and arrows of the world.”

“You found him in his cave, and he didn’t even devour you?”

“I don’t think he had the heart,” said Jehan with a toss of his hair, “Poor thing. You would have liked him.”

“I’m sure.” Bahorel clutched his blankets higher around him and sighed, and in that moment any plan Jehan had to be subtle went out the window. 

“Bahorel,” he began, feeling his face turn red and tears prick behind his eyes, “what is ailing you? You say you are in perfect health, and here you are, still in bed, and of course you can lay in bed as long as you would like, I know that, I understand that, but this isn’t like you, and I’m worried, and I want you to know that I am here to listen if you want to talk, or, or drink with you, or cry with you, or we could go to the theatre, or I can bring you on another quest if you would like, and also I brought some food because I was worried that you hadn’t eaten so —“ he was cut off when Bahorel threw his blankets aside, sat up, and pulled him into a fierce hug. He buried his face in Bahorel’s chest, trying to calm his breathing.

“This isn’t fair,” he mumbled eventually, breath still catching on each word, “you’re the one in the thrall of spiritual demons. I should be comforting you.”

“Hush,” said Bahorel, and there was more of the warmth back in his voice. He wiped the tears from Jehan’s cheeks with his thumb, then pulled him down so he they were lying together. Jehan put his head on Bahorel’s shoulder and flung an arm across his chest. “I have spent the day alone, and while it was necessary, I am more than ready for more of your excellent companionship.”

“Good,” said Prouvaire with a watery smile, “because I absolutely did not know what to do in your absence last night. Improper behavior is much less fun without you.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Bahorel laughed quietly, “and I am sorry for worrying you. It was nothing.”

“I doubt that,” said Jehan, “but we don’t need to discuss it if you don’t wish to. I brought you back some talismans —“

“I had an unusually displeased letter from my parents,” said Bahorel, staring up at the ceiling. Jehan started.

“Is everything —“

“My family are all safe and well, yes, it’s not that.”

“Oh.” Jehan studied Bahorel’s face. His relationship with his parents had always been one of the warmer ones among their friend group. Jehan resolved to wait for him to volunteer more information. 

He didn’t have to wait long. “They are…disappointed. That I have not pursued my studies with more vigor.” Ah. That made some sense. Bahorel, for all his curiosity, was a determinedly lackluster student. “They said in the letter that they have high hopes for me, of marriage and service to our province, and they expect me to obtain my degree and return home within the next year.”

Jehan’s stomach dropped. Bahorel couldn’t leave Paris. The city itself would crumble into the catacombs. Not to mention what he himself would do. He squeezed Bahorel tightly.

“I am sorry, my friend. I know you don’t desire a degree, and desire to return home even less —“

“I’m not too worried about that,” sighed Bahorel. “My parents were angry in this letter, but they are reasonable people. I could plead with them, gain another year or two in the city, put off the dreaded mantle of lawyerdom a while longer, but,” he paused for just a moment, “I wonder if I would be merely…delaying the inevitable.”

“Fear not!” cried Jehan, alarmed. “You, a respectable lawyer serving the nobility? That will never happen. Why, the sky itself would crumble before — “

“Many before us have said that,” Bahorel replied quietly, “and many have been wrong. I will try, certainly, but one cannot be, well, what we are forever. Eventually my parents will grow old, and they will need care, and the world will fall around me just so, and I will end up taking some respectable position in a respectable small town and marrying a respectable woman and raising dreadfully respectable children, and I do not want that!” his voice rose into the tones of a declaration. “The world does not need more dreadfully respectable men writing dreadfully respectable words and serving dreadfully respectable lords.”

“You don’t need to do that,” said Jehan quietly, “I for one cannot envision it. There must be other ways to grow old, and we will find them. I don’t want to be respectable either, and I solemnly swear as your friend I will do everything in my power to prevent you from reaching such a fate.”

“Well,” said Bahorel, turning so he lay facing Jehan, “I am immeasurably lucky to have such a friend. Every man should have a friend like you, Jean Prouvaire. The world would be a much brighter place.” He fell silent, thoughtful. “I still fear it may be,” he said, finally, “that we will become old as those before us have, with compromises, and a dulling of principle. But I would not see it happen. And if anyone in the world could prevent it, I do fancy it would be you, my heroic dragon-befriender.” He placed a hand on Jehan’s cheek, and Jehan felt his whole being grow warm. 

“I will always endeavor,” he said solemnly, “to befriend all dragons, to make the world less respectable, and to prevent you from living an upright life.” Bahorel smiled, and for the first time all day Jehan saw the light of it truly reach his eyes. “But you forget, I brought talismans back for you! From my quest! You must thank me, and appreciate my heroic deeds, for they were hard won.”

“I shall write an epic in your honor,” teased Bahorel, and sat up as Jehan reached for the collection of objects on the table. He cast a nervous glance around the room. “Ah, none of these…talismans…are alive, are they?”

“Not this time!” chirped Jehan. He grabbed the rapidly-disintegrating daisy first, and held it out for Bahorel. As Bahorel took it, a petal broke off and fluttered to the mattress. 

“Ah…thank you?” smirked Bahorel.

“You must not judge a talisman!” scolded Jehan, “you yourself know how objects can hold value past their appearance — besides, I think wilting is a thing of beauty. It signifies a purpose fulfilled.”

“I suppose,” said Bahorel, valiantly fighting the twitch in his lips, “and did your dragon friend pick this for me?”

“No, it was in Courfeyrac’s lapel,” said Jehan. “I visited his rooms after meeting the dragon, and he and Enjolras were there. They both send their regards.”

“Well I shall be sure to thank Courfeyrac’s lapel.” Bahorel was still smiling. Jehan’s heart soared. “And what of this book?”

“Ah,” said Prouvaire, smiling wickedly, “it’s apparently a noble defense of those protectors of art from creativity or ingenuity, the dramatic unities. Combeferre found it at a curio store, and was saving it for an appropriate occasion when you needed to be enraged. He said to give it you now, and he and Feuilly both cannot wait to hear your, what were their words? Ah yes, ‘jolly evisceration’ of the argument. I am also excited.”

“Well I must not disappoint you all,” agreed Bahorel. Then he turned to the flask. “And what of this? Did your dragon friend give you liquid fire to bring me?”

“Not as such, although it is wine from the Musain. Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire were there. Grantaire was in one of his usual fits of eloquence, and he blessed it. Called it unholy water, said it would bring chaos and the destruction of tradition. I thought it would be an excellent tonic for you in your sickness of soul.”

“Oh, certainly!” Bahorel opened the flask, took a swallow, and then pulled Jehan into another crushing hug. Jehan giggled, and kissed Bahorel’s cheek.

“I am glad you are feeling more in order, my friend. Although you know, when melancholy strikes again, it will be my honor to share it with you.”

“I know,” said Bahorel, before kissing Jehan squarely on the lips. The two kissed playfully for a while. Jehan enjoyed the drag of Bahorel’s teeth on his lips and neck. Bahorel reached to tickle him under his ribs and he laughed, squirming in the other man’s lap.

“I feel quite better now, thank you for the talismans,” said Bahorel as he ran a hand through Jehan’s hair. “I shall have to thank each of our friends, but first,” he trailed a hand down Jehan’s chest and set it low on his hip, “I have something else I’d like to attend to.” Jehan laughed again, and blushed.

“Well,” he said, and found himself breathless, “you have about an hour to take care of whatever that may be, because I invited all of them to come over this evening.”

Bahorel chuckled, deep in his chest, and then nipped softly at Jehan’s jaw. “I suppose I can work with that.”


End file.
